The countryside breathed serenity. The evening sky was clear as crystal, the air fresh and cool, and the grass stretched endlessly like a gentle green ocean beneath the fading sunlight.
A young boy—no ordinary child—played near the hilltop. Barely ten years old, yet already taller and sturdier than most kids his age. Despite his size, his nature was soft, kind-hearted, almost too gentle for his frame.
His name was Ryan Turner.
Mrs. Turner:"Ryan! Come inside, boy! It's dinner time!"
She called from the porch, her voice carrying a familiar warmth.
Ryan: "Okay, ma! Coming!"
He sprinted toward the cozy farmhouse. Inside, a big dinner table awaited, lit by the soft glow of a single hanging lamp. Ryan and his mother sat together, the sound of crickets mixing with the clinking of silverware.
After a few quiet bites, Ryan glanced up.
Ryan: "Is dad coming home today?"
He asked—not out of excitement, but with a faint trace of unease.
Mrs. Turner:"I don't know, honey,"
(She said softly, smiling to ease him)
"You know how daddy's work is."
Her calm voice washed over him, easing the tension in his small shoulders. For a brief moment, all his worries slipped away, and he allowed himself to simply enjoy being with his mother.
Later that night, as stars bloomed across the sky, Ryan wandered the house with a stick clutched in his hand, pretending it was a rifle. He moved slowly, carefully—like a soldier on patrol—eyes sweeping over every shadow, every corner.
Then—
Woof! Woof!
He jumped, then broke into a grin.
Ryan: "Oh—it's you, Tank!"
Tank wasn't his dog, not really. She was a stray that came and went as she pleased, but she always showed up at night. As if she'd decided it was her job to protect him.
Ryan crouched beside her, lowering his voice into something serious.
Ryan: "You know the drill, Lieutenant Tank. We keep Ma and the house safe. No intruders. Got it?"
He snapped into a crooked military pose.
Tank barked back, tail wagging furiously.
Ryan laughed, dropping the act, and the two of them tumbled across the yard—his giggles mixing with her playful barks beneath the moonlight.
By dawn, the house was quiet again.
Ryan and Tank lay side by side on the front porch, fast asleep. His small arm rested over her back, fingers curled in her fur. The rising sun bathed them in soft gold, peaceful and still.
Then—
Footsteps echoed across the wooden porch.
A tall shadow stretched over the boy and the dog, cutting through the morning light.
Mr. Turner: "What is this?"
His voice was deep—heavy enough to smother the quiet morning.
Ryan stirred. His eyes fluttered open.
The moment he recognized the figure standing over him, his heart slammed into his chest. The warmth vanished. Sweat beaded along his temple as fear rushed in, sharp and sudden.
Ryan: "Uh—uh… g–good morning, sir!"
His voice shook as he snapped into a crooked salute, arm trembling.
Tank growled low, hackles rising. She stepped forward, placing herself between the man and the boy, barking sharp and loud.
Ryan (whispering): "Tank… please, calm down…"
His plea barely carried. The dog didn't listen. She felt it—the fear rolling off him.
Mr. Turner: "Is this dog yours, boy?"
Ryan swallowed hard.
Ryan: "N–no, sir. She's a stray. She just… helps me patrol at night."
Mr. Turner's brow twitched.
Mr. Turner: "Patrol?"
A pause. Then a step forward.
The porch creaked under his boots.
Mr. Turner: "Is that what you were doing just now?"
Ryan's breathing hitched. Each step closer made his chest tighter, smaller. Tank barked louder, teeth bared, warning him back.
Ryan: "I–I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again. I promise."
Tank lunged.
Ryan barely had time to gasp—
THUD!
Mr. Turner's boot struck hard, sending the dog flying off the porch. She hit the ground with a yelp, rolling into the grass below.
Ryan: "NO!"
His scream cracked apart, tears flooding his eyes as he scrambled forward, hands shaking, heart breaking at the sight of her lying there.
The commotion brought Mrs. Turner rushing out the door. Her expression froze when she saw her husband standing there, the dog motionless in the yard.
Mrs. Turner: "OH hey h–honey… what's going on here?"
She forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
Mr. Turner didn't look at her.
Mr. Turner:"Don't play dumb, you stupid cow."
(He growled)
"You know what's wrong."
Ryan's lips quivered as he looked toward his mother, tears sliding silently down his cheeks. He dared not speak.
Mrs. Turner: "Please… he's just a child. He's only ten—"
Mr. Turner:"He ain't a child."
(He cut her off)
"He's a soldier. A weapon."
(He turned then, eyes cold)
"I don't know how many times I gotta teach you two imbeciles the same damn thing. This world doesn't need kids—it needs warriors."
He grabbed Ryan by the hair.
Mrs. Turner (crying, begging): "No! Please—honey, no!"
Mr. Turner: "You'll learn. Both of you will."
He dragged Ryan toward the door. Mrs. Turner screamed and tried to stop him—only for his hand to seize her hair too. The door slammed behind them.
Then came the screams. Agonized. Desperate. Echoing through the walls of that quiet country home until all that remained was silence.
Inside the dimly lit house, Ryan and his mother lay on the floor—bruised, bloodied, barely breathing.
Ryan turned his head, looking at her motionless face beside him.
Ryan (whispering):"I'm sorry, ma… I'm so sorry. It won't happen again… not again…"
His tears hit the wooden floor, one by one, as the sound of Tank's distant whimpers faded into the wind.
The sun had begun to sink, painting the battered countryside gold.
Ryan knelt beside his mother, gently wrapping a cloth around her bruised arm. Her breathing was shallow — weak. He wiped the sweat from her forehead with trembling hands.
Upstairs, his father's heavy snores rumbled through the ceiling. Ryan glanced toward the stairs every few seconds, terrified of waking him.
He wanted to run — to get help — but fear pinned him in place like chains.
He stepped outside for air. The night breeze brushed against his cuts, stinging like tiny knives.
Ryan:"Tank?"
He whispered. But no answer.
He tried again, quieter this time, eyes darting toward the window where his father slept.
But nothing but the hum of crickets.
The sky darkened into evening. Supper time.
His stomach twisted with hunger—sharp, hollow—but his mother hadn't moved in hours.
Ryan:"Guess it's up to me…"
(He muttered)
Inside, the boy stood at the stove on his toes, clumsily stirring what little food they had. The smell barely filled the room when heavy footsteps creaked down the stairs.
Mr. Turner: "Why are you cooking, boy?"
Ryan froze.
Ryan: "M-Ma still hasn't woken up, sir. I thought I should maybe make supper for us. You know? She might be hungry when she wakes up."
Mr. Turner:"That's not your job. You're a man. You don't cook."
(His voice hardened)
"That's a woman's duty."
Ryan (hesitated):"But… Ma needs to eat—"
Mr. Turner:"I DON'T CARE!"
The words thundered through the house. Ryan flinched, the wooden spoon falling from his shaking hand. The only sound after was the hiss of food burning.
Mr. Turner: "If your mother wants to lie there and be useless, let her. We'll eat whenever she decides to get up and cook herself."
He ripped the pan from the stove and hurled it against the wall, the metal clattering to the floor. Then, with a glare that pierced through Ryan's chest, he turned toward the stairs.
Mr. Turner:"You'll patrol all night. Training starts at dawn."
His footsteps faded.
Ryan stood in silence, fists balled tight, tears running unchecked. He walked to the couch, knelt beside his mother, and whispered shakily,
Ryan: "Ma, please… wake up. I need you. I'm scared. "
The room stayed silent except for the soft creak of the floorboards beneath his knees.
That night, Ryan patrolled the yard, dragging his exhausted legs through the tall grass. The moonlight shimmered on his bruised face. His stomach growled, echoing the emptiness inside him.
Then he heard it — a cough.
Sharp. Wet.
He sprinted inside. His mother was sitting up, trembling, blood staining her lips.
Ryan:"Ma are you okay?"
He whispered, panicking.
She turned to him weakly, eyes filled with both love and sorrow.
Mrs. Turner: "Oh, my baby… look at you."
Her tears fell when she saw his bandaged arms and bruised face.
Ryan:"Don't worry about me Ma. I'm okay. I'll go get you help, wait for me."
She caught his wrist before he could move. Her grip was weak but firm enough to stop him.
Mrs. Turner: "No… -you don't to baby. I'll be fine in the morning."
She forced a smile, thin and trembling, meant to comfort him—to promise that everything would be alright.
Ryan:"Are you sure?"
She kept smiling faintly, despite the blood at the corner of her lips.
Mrs. Turner:"Yes… and I'll make you a big breakfast. I promise."
Ryan forced a small smile through his tears and nodded.
Ryan: "Okay, Ma."
He went back outside. The night felt colder, but for a moment, he clung to that promise like light in the dark.
Then morning came.
As the first rays of sunlight cut across the field. Ryan ran inside with a hopeful grin — but stopped dead in his tracks.
His mother still lay on the couch, motionless.
He saw his father sitting in the recliner, watching the static on the TV like it was more alive than she was.
Mr. Turner:"You're early. Still got thirty minutes left of patrol."
Ryan ignored him, not intentionally—he simply didn't understand why his mother was still lying on the couch.
Ryan (low voice): "Why isn't she up yet?"
No answer.
He stepped closer, trembling. His father finally rose, slipping on his jacket—completely disregarding the question.
Mr. Turner: "We're leaving. Let's go."
Ryan: "Sir… I think Ma's not—she's not alright."
His father didn't even look at her.
Mr. Turner: "I said let's go."
Ryan's voice cracked.
Ryan: "Sir… is Ma dead?"
A long silence. Then—
Mr. Turner: "I don't know. If she's alive, she better have food ready when we get back. I'm starving."
Something broke in Ryan's chest. He didn't speak again. He just followed.
They walked through open fields in silence. Wind brushed the grass, whispering like ghosts.
They reached a riverbank where the ground was burned, cracked, still reeking of old explosions.
His father stopped, drawing a pistol and a dagger from his belt.
Mr. Turner: "Training begins."
Ryan stared at the weapons, then at him.
Ryan: "Is Ma dead?"
His voice was empty—not weak, but hollow.
Mr. Turner: "Tch. I told you already. Focus."
Ryan didn't move.
Mr. Turner: "You want someone to blame? Blame yourself. If she's gone… it's because you failed her."
The words cut deeper than any knife. The world went quiet. His heartbeat slowed—then thundered.
Images flooded his mind: her smile, her tears, the bruises, the laughter that once filled the house—drowned by his father's voice.
Ryan (quietly): "I failed her…"
(The air shimmered. Heat distorted reality as he screamed)
"I WON'T FAIL HER AGAIN!"
His eyes burned red. Sparks burst from his palms—tiny at first, then violent, uncontrollable.
The ground trembled. His father stepped back in shock.
Mr. Turner: "Ryan! What are you—"
The world erupted.
Flames swallowed the riverbank. Explosions tore through the valley. Ryan's scream split the air—not with anger, but agony. Not at his father—at himself.
When the light faded, the riverbank was gone. Only a smoking crater remained… and a boy on his knees, tears falling into ash.
Evening settled in silence. Ash drifted across the fields as Ryan walked the dirt road home, his small figure swallowed by the sunset. His tears had dried. His eyes were empty—like someone who had already seen the end of the world.
Inside the quiet house, he lifted his mother's fragile body from the couch, holding her as if she might break.
Without hesitation, he carried her toward the distant glow of hospital lights.
People froze when they saw him—bruised, burned, clutching her lifeless form.
Ryan: "Please… help my ma… she's not waking up… I think she might be hungry… please."
His voice was hoarse, barely human.
Nurses rushed forward, taking her from his arms. Ryan didn't resist. He only stared at his burned hands, stained with her blood, trying to understand what he'd done wrong.
Hours passed. Rain tapped against the windows.
Sheriff Douglas entered quietly, hat in hand.
Sheriff Douglas: "Hey there, son. How ya feelin'?"
Ryan: "…Is my ma okay?"
The Sheriff hesitated.
Sheriff Douglas: "I'll tell ya in a minute, kid. But first… I need to know what happened."
Ryan told him everything. Every bruise. Every scream. Every night patrolling instead of sleeping. No tears—only guilt.
Ryan: "I don't know if my father's okay. Maybe… he just got tired of me and left. I know I wasn't good enough."
The Sheriff swallowed hard.
Sheriff Douglas: "Don't worry, son. I'll find him for ya…"
As he turned to leave—
Ryan: "Wait… is ma okay?"
The Sheriff stopped. His eyes glistened.
Sheriff Douglas: "No, son… she ain't. She's gone."
The door closed. No cries followed—only silence.
Later, the militia identified the family. Ryan Turner—son of Sergeant Thomas Turner.
His father's remains were found at the riverbank. Nothing left but ash.
Records revealed Sergeant Turner had three other children before Ryan. All died under similar circumstances. Ryan was the only survivor.
He never spoke again.
The boy's eyes dulled, his heart sealed behind invisible walls. His power remained—wild, unstable, terrifying. They took him in, not as a child, but as an asset.
Years passed. Pain became discipline. Guilt became strength. He trained until his body broke—then trained again. Every explosion, every scar, every order reminded him what happens when he fails.
And when he finally spoke again, his voice was no longer Ryan's.
It was deeper. Stronger. Empty.
The kind boy who once patrolled the countryside for his mother's safety—
was gone.
From the ashes of his childhood, one of the world's deadliest Fighters was born.
War.
Back to the present—
Flames licked the shattered island. Fallen trees burned where they lay, the land reduced to rubble beneath two titans who had turned the battlefield into a graveyard.
Nero stood amid the smoke, katana resting loosely at his side.
Nero: "Uhhhh…"
(He drawled, tilting his head)
"You don't fear anything?"
(A low, sinister chuckle slipped from his lips)
"Yeah… that's the biggest lie I've ever heard."
(His tone hardened, amusement draining away.)
"You're no god. Fear is carved into us. No matter how strong you are—you don't get rid of it."
War's armor steamed as he squared his stance, eyes locked onto Nero.
War: "That's where you're wrong, Demon,"
(he said coldly)
"I overcame it. Burned it out of myself. Fear doesn't exist in me anymore."
Nero stared—then burst into laughter.
Nero: "Tch… HAHahahah!! Oh man—wow. That sounded heroic."
(He wiped a tear from his eye)
"Did you read that in a comic book?"
(The laughter stopped)
"We'll see if that's true."
He drew his katana.
Nero (thinking): "I can't beat him unless I feed on his fear."
War tensed—
Too late.
Nero vanished.
Ushiro-giri!
A horizontal slash ripped across War's back, carving through armor in a spray of sparks.
War: "Damn it!"
(Realized)
"I sensed him—but I couldn't react. He's faster."
He spun, launching a backhand—
Empty air.
Nero reappeared.
Inazuma!
An upward slash tore through the smoke, lifting War off his footing.
Before he could recover—
Happo-giri!
Steel screamed from all directions.
Up.
Down.
Left.
Right.
Diagonal.
A storm of blackened slashes rained down, denying War even a second to breathe.
Nero leapt for the finishing strike—
War caught him.
One massive hand clamped around Nero's leg.
THUMP!
THUMP!
He slammed Nero into the ground again and again—
CRASH!
Nero struggled, shadows flaring, but the grip didn't break.
With a roar, War hurled him.
Nero became a missile, tearing across the island and crashing into the mountainside.
BANG!!
The earth trembled.
War didn't hesitate.
He charged—each step cracking stone—then leapt, his fist engulfed in flame and smoke.
War: "Grenade!!"
POW—BOOM!!
The mountain detonated. Debris rained from the sky, ash swallowing the battlefield.
Silence.
Then—
Darkness moved.
Shadows curled inward, devouring the smoke.
Nero emerged.
His body twisted unnaturally as he straightened, mask shattered, aura writhing like something alive.
War: "I can't let him escape,"
(War thought, staring at his clenched fist—his mother's face flashing through his mind)
"I won't fail again."
Steam erupted from his armor. His aura ignited, turning rain into vapor, stone into ash.
War (bellowing):"…I'm going all out!"
Nero only smiled.
They launched.
KERRANG!!
Fist met blade.
The impact shook the island's bones. Waves roared. Dark clouds formed overhead, acid rain pouring down through the firestorm.
Neither cared.
Blow after blow.
Slash after slash.
Then—
Nero stopped.
War staggered, confused.
War: "The hell are you doing?! Why'd you stop?!"
Nero looked up at the burning sky, rain sliding off his blade.
Then he looked back—his expression split between sorrow and delight.
War (thinking): "What is wrong with this guy…?"
Explosions erupted around Nero.
He slipped through them effortlessly, reappearing atop a shattered tree, eyes glowing, piercing the night.
Nero: "I'll make you fear me."
He gripped his katana with both hands. Black aura pulsed violently.
He launched.
War detonated explosion after explosion—each larger than the last—
But Nero passed through them untouched, a dark phantom tearing through fire.
War (roared): "DAMN IT!! I CAN'T FAIL!! I CAN'T!!"
Desperation took hold.
The rain ignited—every drop becoming an explosion.
Nero sliced through them all.
The darkness devoured fire with every swing.
He soared high—purely Demonic—
And descended.
Nero (coldly): "You failed—"
The words pierced deeper than any blade.
War's spirit cracked.
War: "BRING IT!!!"
(Screamed)
"NUKE!!!"
Nero (whispered): " —Death."
Shomen-uchi!
Light swallowed the island.
Darkness cut through it.
When the dust settled, the land was gone.
War lay broken, armor split, blood spilling from his lips.
War: "No… I… I promised…"
(He coughed)
"Ma…"
Nero stood over him.
Nero:"I'll go now,"
(he said calmly)
"And whatever I do next… that's on you. Because you failed to stop me."
War's memories flooded back—failures, punishments, screams.
Nero bent down, meeting his gaze.
Yellow eyes burned into his soul.
Nero: "If you ever think you don't fear again—"
(A beat)
"Remember my face."
Laughter echoed as flames rose and ash fell, his silhouette framed by the moon.
War's vision shattered.
Darkness closed in.
And in the clash between a colossal Fighter—Seraphim of raw power—and the Sixth Blade of the Red Moon…
The Yellow-Eyed Demon stood victorious.